


Theoretical Knowledge

by fictive_frolic



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, He just is, Slow Burn, Smut, bucky is a grumpy disillusioned fuck okay, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-19 20:43:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22070755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictive_frolic/pseuds/fictive_frolic
Summary: Bucky Barnes is a math professor whose entire life centers around creating order from chaos. You are chaos incarnate and he cannot. Simply cannot. Figure out how one should go about dealing with the chaos they cannot control.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader, platonic Natasha Romanov/ Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 81





	1. Chapter 1

“Remember kids,” you say sitting on the desk, feet folded as you cradle a cup of coffee, “A theory is JUST a framework for understanding. So. As we discuss Marxist, Feminist, and Queer Theories, no. I am not telling you that you HAVE to use only those theories and you HAVE to see the world that way. So please. Please keep the tweetstorms to a minimum in class. Just remember. If you don’t understand the theories, you can’t argue against them effectively.”

You smile and set your coffee cup down. “That said, Tuesday, we’ll be starting with Feminist Theory. Please read the chapter before class and come prepared to engage in our preliminary discussion.”

College kids, mostly freshmen start to trickle out, gathering their things and clustering up a few at a time. You alternately loved and hated teaching lower-level courses. The amount of handholding that they needed to be housebroken for their upper-level courses got a little more astounding every semester but… Still. There was something lovely about helping them build a solid foundation for the rest of their careers. 

You pause to answer a few questions. Careful to help them find the correct information. People for the next class were queuing up just beyond your periphery and you direct the stragglers to you office hours. You can feel the grumpy glare of Barnes, the mathematics professor and you cringe internally. You were willing to bet that you were going to have a shitty email waiting on you this evening. Some tripe about respecting other people’s time. Like it was your fault they’d shoehorned your 100 level classes into the Mathematics building. It was all the way across campus and there wasn’t decent coffee to be found anywhere on any floor. It was a miserable utilitarian clusterfuck of a building. Still. On some level it was super fun to get under his skin. The grump ass.

But, you were a good girl. You ignored his impatient harrumphs and tried not to glare at him when he slammed his stuff down and startled you. You erased the board carefully and quietly gathered your things as he sent an attendance sheet around the room, starting his droning on about Proofs or whatever the fuck. You even smiled, just a little when you caught his eye.

Numbers left you cold. 

They reminded you of sitting on the floor in the hallway. Flecks of mica winking mockingly at you as you try to finish the times table drill through the tremors in your hands and the tears that are threatening to spill. 

They reminded you of desperation. Frantically searching couch cushions for change. Just 80 cents so that you could at least get some fries at lunch. You’’re sick. Too sick to go to school but you can’t miss Algebra and there’s no food in the house. 

Numbers are an immutable fact. You can’t change them. No amount of new information will change that 2+2 is 4. Or change the fact that when you run the numbers, you come up wanting. So you try, very hard not to think about how irritating Barnes is. How you hate the aloofness in his face and how badly you’d like to see him smile to see if it made his eyes look less… Less frozen. 

As you strode across campus, anxious to get out of the cutting wind and stinging snow, back to your warm office and good coffee. Back on what felt like Terra Firma where you could discuss Russian Literature, and Freud’s Bullshit, and witchcraft, and stupid tv. Things you understood. Things you’d studied just for the sake of knowing. Things that had lead you here. You pushed the thoughts of Professor James Barnes out of your mind. He was as he was, and with any luck, it would only be for a semester that your existence would cause him any more irritation. Still. As you unlocked your door and settled behind your desk… There had to be something to be done about him. Something to chill him out just a little bit. You were just considering texting your usual gang of miscreants and rogue academics. You weren’t sure if it was for a war council or just for a drink. But you were saved having to figure it out when a familiar red head hurled herself dramatically across your desk.

“Please. I’m dying. Tinder sucks. Can we please. Please. Pretty fucking please go out. I miss out,” she says.

“Tasha,” you laugh, petting her hair absently, not looking up from your email, but pausing long enough to pat her hair, “You’re the one that said we couldn’t go out anymore.”

“And I was wrong. So. Very Wrong.”

“Well I’m not opposed but you know that if we don’t invite the boys they’ll be sad.”

“Tap room?”

“Sounds great,” you say absently, glaring at the missive that had just popped up.

Natasha arranged herself in a more dignified position in you guest chair and helped herself to a coffee and a snack, “Your face is making a face,” she frowns. 

“It’s just my best Buddy over in the Mathematics department,” you sigh rolling your eyes.

“Barnes right?” she says taking a sip of coffee.

You nod and turn the screen so she can read it.

You watch her eyes scan the monitor and watch the frown lines materialize, “What the fuck. Like dude. It’s just flavored coffee.”

“Right?”

“Control freak.”

“For fucking real. Like. Ew.”

You roll your eyes and she picks up her phone, “Maybe one of the Boys will know something.”

“Maybe,” you shrug, refusing to respond with apologies. 

________

“Bucky!” Steve said leaning on the door frame, “Come on. We’re going out.”

“No thank you,” Bucky said snorting, “I really don’t want to have to carry your drunk ass home. Or listen to you spout Poli-sci bullshit to try and get girls.”

“Well the girls we’re going with are gonna be completely unavailable and uninterested. We’re gonna hit the tap room and watch the game.” Steve frowned at his friend who kept glancing at his laptop like he was waiting on something. 

“What did you do, Bucky?” he asked folding his arms.

“Nothing,” he huffed.

“Well if you scowl at your computer any harder it’s gonna burst into flames.”

“I’m just waiting on an email,” he said feeling uncomfortable under Steve’s scrutiny. Squirming slightly in his chair. 

“Who are you picking a fight with now?” Steve scolded.

“I’m not.”

“James.”

“I don’t know what she teaches. Some social science thing. But she leaves the lecture hall a mess and reeking of flavored coffee.”

Steve rolled his eyes, “You’re doing it again.”

“Doing what?” he snapped.

“Missing Yelena and taking it out on some random girl that’s just slightly messy.”

“I’m not.” he said petulantly, “It’s unprofessional to take up my time.”

Steve restrained an eyeroll with effort, “C’mon, ya grumpy fuck. You like Nat fine. And Sam is coming. You can’t just rot in your house and forget how to live forever.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah yeah,” Steve said dismissively, “Pick you up at 7.” And he was gone before Bucky had a chance to formulate a reply.

The truth was complicated. Bucky knew exactly what you taught. The Anthropology of Religion. Folklore. Witchcraft. He’d read everything you had ever written. He followed your Twitter. He just. He didn’t understand you. You had a mind suited for numbers. Logical. Straight forward. Applying science and advocating for greater understanding with reckless abandon. 

But all you studied was… Stories. None of it was real. it was smoke and shadows. Illusions. He could only assume you were the same way. An illusion. You were pretty enough. Funny. But there had to be something… broken inside you. Something that you were hiding. Something to be wary of. He just didn’t know how to explain that to Steve. 

Numbers he understood. They were what they were regardless. If there was a mistake, he made it. There was no one else to blame with numbers. They sang to him like nothing else did. They spoke to him and whispered secrets. 

They made him think of being warm in bed with a book of number puzzles and a cup of hot chocolate on a snow day. The joy of solving a problem he’d been teasing at for days. It was happiness in its purest form. Accomplishment. Order from chaos.

You were chaos to which he saw no order. He couldn’t find a pattern to you. A nimbus of coffee and lost trains of thought. Bucky did not understand you and as he stared at his laptop, waiting for a reply, he wasn’t sure he wanted to. 

He decidedly didn’t want to. And he couldn’t wait for the semester to be over


	2. Chapter 2

The Taproom was a quiet little bar. Not too Divey. Not too Trendy. They hosted Karaoke nights and had craft beer and cocktails. It was just posh enough to discourage students but not so posh none of you could afford it. It was nice.

Nicer still was sitting in a back table where you could all drink and argue to your heart’s content as snow lashed against the windows. Winter’s wrath had finally been unleashed after a too warm Christmas. “Sam,” you grouse, “You were supposed to bring me back a handsome Italian man who could cook. Not this bullshit weather.”

The Physics professor only chuckled and raised his glass in mock toast, “This is the best I could do, baby. Alessandro wouldn’t fit in my carry on.”

“Lame,” you sigh sipping your gin and tonic.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises, grinning.

“That… That does not make me feel better,” you say hesitating.

Sam winked and waved over your shoulder to get the attention of the two men just walking in. “Sam you didn’t,” Nat said smacking her forehead.

“What?” he said commandeering an extra chair for Bucky as you turn around to look and trade frantic looks with Nat. “Bucky never comes out anymore. So Steve made him… Beside. You’d look cute together,” he wiggled his eyebrows at you suggestively and you felt your stomach sink to somewhere around your knees.

It really wasn’t fair that someone that fucking unlikeable was that handsome. It really wasn’t. You had an insane desire to muss his hair and askew his tie. Not one hair was out of place and you felt shabby, despite being dressed like everyone else. Casually. To fit the environment. “Sam,” Nat sighed.

“What?” he repeated, not missing the way that Bucky looked at you. Like he was pissed that you were there.

“I trust you got my last email?” he said taking a seat.

“And I elected to ignore it,” you answer, taking a sip of your drink.

Steve and Nat trade looks and Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. He liked you and he couldn’t Believe YOU of all people were who Bucky was picking a fight with now. You were new to the College. You’d been office mates with Nat for a hot minute while they’d found you your own cozy little broom closet. And that had led the others to you. Except for Bucky.

Bucky had missed the introductions a few months ago. He’d been elbow deep in his divorce. Digging through the corpse of his marriage looking for something, anything to save in the face of Yelena and her betrayal. It had been a bitter, brutal fight that had culminated in him becoming even more cynical and reclusive than he had been before.

At your blithe refusal to acknowledge his current aggravation with you a muscle in his jaw ticks. Steve knows the only thing keeping him from saying something scathing is that Natasha can and will drop him if he acts like too much of an asshole to her new friend. He can see Bucky practically choking on the words he wants to say. Natasha tried not to feel guilty. She should have told you that she knew him. Should have told Bucky to back off. Or given you some context but. Honestly you were hard to get a fix on. Like now. Your eyes had narrowed and you were focused in on the ticking muscle in his jaw. Watching his every move like you were aligning mental crosshairs. Bracing for a fight. But you don’t. Before bucky can open his mouth you’d tossed back the rest of your drink and murmured a quiet, non-confrontational excuse about wanting to leave before things got slick. You politely, but firmly refuse all offers of company and pay your tab before slipping out of the bar.

Your scarf, left behind in your haste stares at Natasha in reproach and she mentally makes a note to bring you an apology coffee and an explanation in the morning. Even if your reaction was curious and left her slightly more uncomfortable than the way bucky glared after you.

“Such a fucking grump ass,” Sam said shaking his head, “That’s a damn pretty girl you just scared away.”

Bucky glowered at Sam and took a sip of his drink, “She’s not my type,” he said shrugging, “Too big,” Even as he said it he felt like an asshole. He couldn’t even be mad at Natasha who kicked his ankle with enough vitriol to leave a bruise.

“Fuck you, Bucky,” she said, “That is a gorgeous, smart woman.”

“Yeah, Buck, don’t be like that. At least don’t say it like that if you do mean it,” Steve scolded.

“I got used to a certain body type,” Bucky said shrugging, “And it’s not as if she’s interested in me anyway.”

“Body type,” Natasha scoffed, “Yeah. Okay. No you just got used to a crazy bitch and now anyone normal seems like a fucking space alien.”

Bucky started meticulously peeling the label off his beer. He felt guilty. He really did. The truth was complicated. He really did find you pretty. It was a different pretty from Yelena’s cold beauty. If she was a perfectly frozen pond in the winter. Black tree branches bent with the weight of the ice and snow on the banks as the sun sank below the horizon. You were… You were well. He didn’t know what you were but there was no austere marble facade with you. He kept seeing the way your eyes had narrowed. The way you watched everyone at the table, suddenly… uncomfortable. The way you fled the table. Forgetting your scarf. He felt like a heel.

But that had been the point.

Heels don’t have feelings.

Steve watched his oldest friend for a long minute, several things clicking into place as he stared. Two really important things. One being Yelena hadn’t really killed the Bucky they knew and loved. The one they’d just gotten back after the Army. And Two you might be the way they could get him back for good. And keep him this time.

He just had to figure out how to do it. How to get the two of you together.

________

You let yourself into your apartment and put your phone on ‘Do Not Disturb’. You don’t wanna talk. Or think. It’s really hard to deal with that level of anxiety in public. The best thing to do is to retreat. Retreat and regroup. You slide down the door and sit on the floor, accepting the licks and headbutts from your dog. A faithful little mutt that had been a “Christmas puppy” someone had cast aside. A shaggy labradoodle mix and a whole mess that you adored. Her name was mostly Lady. But she also answered to Porkchop, Wiggle butt, Asshole, and Princess. She leaned against you, anxious that you were anxious even as you lavished attention on her. “I’m all right, baby girl,” you tell her. “I promise,” you say giggling as she licks the end of your nose carefully.

When you get off the floor finally, you go to the kitchen and rifle through the fridge looking for a bottle of cheap Blackberry Merlot. You keep it for emergencies. It tastes more like pop than alcohol. It’s great. And perfect for a night like tonight. A night where you need to numb the discomfort enough to sleep.

Bucky’s jaw had twitched and you’d immediately been kicked into gear. He’d looked angry. Angry and like if he wanted to, he could do something about it. It had put you on guard. You really weren’t trying to catch someone’s hands. Not today. Preferably not ever again. Not after the last time. Times. Whatever, you amended. It didn’t matter now. It was over. All you had to do was keep going.

There weren’t going to be any more holes in the drywall.

No more men in your house. You really didn’t need anyone else with severe emotional issues and, if you knew anything, you were willing to bet that Bucky did too.

“You’re not a rehabilitation center,” you tell yourself firmly before taking a pull from your bottle.

“Don’t engage. Just don’t. Right, Porkchop?”

The dog barks, wagging her tail and you flip her a treat idly, smiling a little as she crunches it down. “Right.” you say, nodding to yourself.


	3. Chapter 3

Bucky Barnes couldn’t focus. It was the goddamn coffee on the table. A Crescent moon of Hazel color winking up at him mockingly from the top of the pale yellow. It was a mockery and Bucky could swear you had left it there on purpose. 

To mock him. 

To distract him.

The truth wasn’t nearly so salacious but. Bucky had no way of knowing that. You’d been avoiding him he knew. Even dismissing classes a few minutes early to avoid seeing him. Directing all questions to your email or your office hours. It had been a week and he hadn’t seen you. 

He felt you. 

In the leftover scent of your perfume. Natasha had told him it was Red Door. Real perfume, worn by a grown woman, not a girl. Someone who had a real job. Had acquired a certain level of class. Or at least a level of discernment. The smears of dry erase ink left behind on the board in your haste to get out of the room before he was there. The air felt tense. The moment before you pulled the trigger tense. A car speeding toward you tense. A loud noise in a quiet room tense. Sloppy. It wasn’t your pattern. You were never sloppy. Not like this. Tense like this. You were scatterbrained and chaotic. Not sloppy. 

It was an anomaly and it set wrong. He’d seen you. You were fearless. You went to protests. He’d seen the videos. Read the articles. Universities who wanted “woke” credit would kill for you to go there to teach. But you’d come here. Out of the way. In large part, Natasha had told him, due to the library.. He wasn’t surprised. That fit with what he knew. 

Natasha wouldn’t really talk to him about you. Neither would anyone else. If they knew what was wrong with you they wouldn’t say. All they would say was that you were fine, mostly. Just keeping some distance, not wanting to cause an issue. 

He didn’t like that either. It felt... gross. He felt gross. Feeling like he was keeping you from going out. Or having friends. He stared at the crescent moon of coffee on the desk and took a deep breath. It was time, he thought, to have a chat with you face to face. Email just wasn’t cutting it. Everyone was mad at him and all he wanted was a little professionalism.

_________

Your office was quiet. Beautifully, Blissfully quiet. Hot water bubbled away in the electric kettle and you were looking forward to a cup of tea to warm your stomach and hopefully ease the tension in your neck. 

It had been making noises. Big, hollow popping sounds all day. It felt better after it popped but still. It was loud and that usually meant a migraine was on the horizon. You sighed and mentally cursed the cop that had thrown you to the ground when you’d been arrested at a protest. Your neck hadn’t quite been the same since. And your knee hadn’t been the same since one a year before that. Lame. So lame. You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Freshmen always needed so much hand-holding. Periods didn’t belong at the start of a sentence and papers should be proofread before you handed them in. This was the 15th paper you had read where NOTHING had been checked. Or even run through basic spellcheck. You pulled your computer keyboard closer and started your email reminding your students to PLEASE learn to edit. You also reminded them that if they did not you were going to start docking points for spelling the name of the class wrong. There was no excuse for their work to be that sloppy. You also directed them to the student union for help editing. 

Bucky stood just out of the doorway listening to keys clicking and took a deep breath. This building was older. The halls were narrow and pokey. This building was really two buildings that had been Frankenstined together some time in the mid 70′s. It was a nightmare and Bucky hated being over here but. It had to be done. 

He exhaled slowly and knocked on the wooden doorframe, startling you. “Shit,” you gasped pressing a hand to your chest and wincing as you knock your knee on the desk. 

“Sorry,” Bucky said quickly, looking away. 

He hadn’t meant to scare you. Really. 

“If you’ve come to yell at me about something in person,” you start, patently not in the mood to discuss your shortcomings as a human being.

“No,” Bucky said holding up his hands, “I mean. Not yell.”

“Close the door,” you say crisply. There are still students milling about in the hall. Heading to study groups or office hours. 

Bucky compiles but doesn’t move to take a seat. It’s your office. He’d impinging on your time now.

“What have I done now?” you demand.

“Not- I-”

Bucky can’t find the words face to face with you. He wants to kiss you. He wonders if your lips are as soft as they look. His mouth is dry and he feels like you’re staring through him.

“Come out with us,” he blurted out.

“No thank you,” you answer.

“I- Nat is mad at me.”

“Okay.”

Bucky winces, “At least go out with them. They think you’re avoiding me.”

“They’re right.” you snort, “I spent my whole life being told how terrible I am. If I wanted to hear about it, I’d have gone home for Christmas.”

“I-”

“No. I’m not going to do it to make YOUR life easier,” you say calmly.

“No I- I get it.” he says taking a deep breath, “I just. Nat really likes you. Everyone does. They miss you.”

“They’ll be fine,” you tell him, “No one misses me long.”

Bucky legitimately does not know what to do. Or say in the safe of your apathy about it. He wants to say that you really don’t care about his friends. He wants to think you’re callous. But as he runs the numbers in his head, it doesn’t add up. There’s a variable he can’t see. There’s something missing to make both sides agree. He wants to ask if you’re okay. You look a little... off somehow. The kind of tired that doesn’t need sleep. But he can see you practically prickling with irritation. On guard. Defensive. 

“Are we done?” you demand, taking a deep breath.

Bucky can’t think. He can’t breathe. Your eyes are burning into him, staring through him. “We’re done,” he frowns, “Just stop leaving coffee puddles on the fucking desk.”

He stalks out of your office trying not to tuck his tail between his legs. He feels like you’d just shouted at him despite the fact that you had never raised your voice and your face had never changed. It was like being told “I’m so disappointed in you” and “bless your heart” at the same time. Bucky played it back in his head again and again. Something about you definitely did NOT add up. 

You were less like Yelena than he had thought. All of her pieces added up. At least on the surface. And even on your surface, you made no sense.


	4. Chapter 4

“Please come out with me?” Nat pouted at you from your couch.

You sigh, you don’t know how to explain that you feel too ugly to go out. That you don’t want to be seen and you almost didn’t open the door for her when she rang the bell. 

“Come on,” she pleaded, “I need my wing woman. The boys suck at getting me hooked up with someone.”

You roll your eyes fondly and pour yourself a glass of wine. “I dunno Tasha,” you murmur, rubbing the back of your neck.

“Just you and me,” she tries, “We’ll leave the boys at home. Make them go chill with Bucky and let us have fun… At least until we need a ride home.”

You shake your head, “I should probably get my grading done.”

“Responsibility is stupid,” she pouted, “That’s why I only assign three papers and two tests.”

“You don’t teach freshmen,” you point out. 

“Tenure is great,” she said happily. 

“I’m sure,” you tell her, curling up on one end of your sofa.

Natasha turns and looks at you, resting her head on your thigh, “You okay, gorgeous?”

“Fine,” you tell her, petting her hair idly, “just… out of sorts I guess.”

Nat scoots over a bit to make room for the dog who now wants to be on the couch, “Hey moose,” she grunts, petting the shaggy head and accepting one little kiss on the end of her nose.

“Well,” Natasha said, “I’ve been claimed as a dog bed so… Legally I’m not allowed to move. I guess we’ll stay here.” The dog woofed softly and you pat her head as she settles in comfortably, quietly thankful that Porkchop knows what you need without saying anything.

The redhead pulls up netflix and scrolls through options until she finds some appropriate thirst fodder, “Ooo, Witcher.”

“Anything you want Nat,” you tell her, snuggling in yourself. 

The other woman sits up just a little and trades looks with the dog who’s wiggle worming her way into your arms.

“This is not just ‘out of sorts’,” she says sternly, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a long story… and I really don’t wanna talk about it.”

Natasha doesn’t press. The only thing she really knows about your pre-academic life is that you don’t. Can’t or won’t talk about it. The one detail she does know is that is was hard and you left it behind for good reason. Beyond that, no one knows. And no one really wants to pry… Well. No one except for Bucky. Bucky wants to know a lot. He swears that he can’t figure you out unless he knows about your past. An Idea Natasha has tried to get him to leave alone. 

Once, when you’d been drunk. Drunk and feeling extra vulnerable, you’d given Natasha a little bit. In the blush of a new friendship when Natasha had shared about escaping with her family to get away from an uncle with mob connections. You’d told her… well. Part of a tragic backstory that was equal parts Lifetime movie and dateline special.

You’d been married once. More accurately you had been married off once. It was… well. It was something that could have only happened in one of god’s blindspots. The details were muddled, told between sobs and shots of tequila but it was enough to make Nat thankful for whatever it was that had made you run. Whatever it was that had left you kind. 

She didn’t know what was going on in your head but honestly, she didn’t think she could handle knowing. She’d been through the mill on her own, but she’d not been alone. You’d been… alone. Left alone in the dark with nothing to help you. So, not knowing what else to do she stayed. Cuddled on your couch and idly petting the dog that was not so subtly demanding pats. It was fine. Comfortable even. There’d be plenty of desperate assholes to hook up with when you felt better.

________________

Bucky handed Steve a glass of Brandy and settled back in his chair. It was leather. Sleek and refined. The kind of chair Yelena had insisted he needed for his study. She insisted a professor needed to look and act like one. It had meant she filled his house with all kinds of things. An espresso maker, a fancy desk blotter, leather-bound editions of classic literature she’d have not been caught dead reading. It was cloying, the air of pretention. Stifling.

“What’s Natasha up to tonight?” Bucky asked, sipping his drink.

“Hanging out at Y/N’s house,” he said.

“Y/N’s?”

“Well yeah. They’re friends.”

“Friends?”

Steve sighed, “You know. Get drinks together, have sleepovers, talk shit about guys… friends.”

“Since when?”

“Probably since they were office mates for a few weeks.”

Bucky nodded slowly. Nat hadn’t really said much about you. Not ever. But. If you were friends she’d know something. Maybe Nat could give him a variable or two to figure you out. Help make the equation make sense. 

You were his Millenium problem. You made no sense. And endless snarl of numbers and coefficients that he hadn’t yet learned how to decipher. And you were ever-changing. He didn’t know where the anomalies were because he couldn’t get a fix on what your base components were. It made no sense. Like smoke, whenever he thought he knew what you looked like, the slightest breeze would make you shift and become something else. He’d thought you were a timid little mouse. Timorous and scurrying to stay away from the cats. But he could still hear the impatience and the directness in your voice as you asked him “Are we done?” So perhaps not a mouse. But you avoided him. You wouldn’t go out if he was there. You wouldn’t meet his eye leaving the room, not even to offer a half-smile of greeting. You often looked stressed. Or anxious. So you weren’t a tiger either, stalking prey. You had to lie somewhere between the two and it made him uncomfortable not knowing where. Even kittens had sharp claws. 

“Bucky,” Steve sighed, “You got what you wanted. She tries not to leave a mess. Now leave her alone.”

The brunette grunted and took a sip from his glass. Steve watched him for a moment, satisfied. He knew that face. Bucky had found a challenge. And Bucky never backed down from a challenge. Real or imaginary.


	5. Chapter 5

It had been a long time since you’d been attractive to anyone. If you’d ever been attractive at all. You doubted it. After getting married at 17 and divorced by 19. It felt like your prime “pretty years” had been whisked out from under you. Not just by the divorce by the years of healing that had had to take place while you stumbled around trying to find a place for yourself in the world, unfettered from your family and their expectations.

You’d be forever thankful for the people who helped you escape and made the way for you to find your own feet. So, as you stood before your class and tried to lecture with James Buchannan Barnes’ glacier goddamn blue eyes boring into you, it was incredibly hard to focus. 

You felt like he was hunting. You felt like a deer on front of a ravenous wolf and it was incredibly hard not to see snarling jaws and a swishing tail. Still, you pressed on. Today was feminist theory and voodoo. A personal favorite topic. One that you’d been attracted to after you’d run to New Orleans. No one would look for you there. You had no family in a 100-mile radius. It was safe. Safe and there was enough to keep you busy, school and otherwise. Even then, for all the people you dated, nothing really felt right. No one felt safe. They felt like they were laying in wait for you to make a mistake. 

And you didn’t feel safe now. Bucky wasn’t doing anything. He wasn’t behaving rudely… he was just. Sitting. Watching.

Completely silent. He hardly even moved. 

You had had to take several deep breaths, trying not to indulge Bucky and let him see you rattled. If that was what he was trying to do. By the time you dismissed your class and were gathering up your things, you had decided to just ignore him altogether. 

Though you did persist in making sure you didn’t leave a mess. There was no point in provoking an altercation you’d rather not have. Especially if you wanted a good reference when you left when your contract had ended. 

Bucky approached the desk slowly. He hadn’t meant to make you uneasy. Or make you feel boxed in. You’d hidden it pretty well but from where he was sitting he could see every time you touched your necklace to subtly press a hand to your chest. If not a full-blown anxiety attack, you’d been getting close and Bucky felt guilty. “Y/N,” he said softly, hesitantly reaching for a stack of papers to grade.

“Look, I’m not leaving a mess, okay!” you snap, snatching the papers up. “Fuck. It’s just a lecture hall not a kingdom.”

You shove the papers back in your bag and rush out of the room, past him. It genuinely felt like you couldn’t breathe. You felt like you were back in high school dodging Bobby Prater again. You leaned against the wall and closed your eyes thankful for the outcropping that hid you from view long enough you could catch your breath. Bucky turned and hastily scrawled “Class is canceled.” The class, the section and the date before half sprinting down the hall to follow you. Your outburst had rattled him a little. You were super calm most of the time. Even as you threw him from your office. 

“Y/N?” he called quietly, stopping to listen. 

There was no sound he could pick out over the dull roar in the hall. He had pretty good hearing after his time as a sniper, but there was nothing he could pick up. It was like you had vanished. At least until he spotted the little outcropping and the strap of a bag. “Sweetheart,” he sighed.

He approached carefully, careful to make some noise walking so he wouldn’t scare you. At least not scare you anymore. 

“Y/n?” he said softly, “Are you okay?”

You open your eyes slowly and exhale, “I’m fine.” But the trembling in your hands and the fine sheen of sweat on your forehead tells him you’re not. 

“C-come get a drink with me?” he tries, “T-tea?” He didn’t want you to be alone. He didn’t want you to be miserable just because he’d been curious. And when you shake your head and move to pick up your bag, his heart aches a little. “I liked your class,” he tried, “I never realized how… intricate magical rituals could get. Or that women were so important to them.”

“Well,” you say softly, “You won’t have to worry about it here shortly. I’m probably gonna leave when my contract is up.”

“Leave?” he said dumbly. “You just got here.”

“And after this term I’ll be going to London. I accepted a job in the British Museum.”

“But Nat-” he started

“I talked to Nat,” you say shrugging, “She’s going to come to visit.”

He somehow felt like the rug had been ripped out from under him. He’d wanted to come to talk to you, to coax you into a drink, and then talk to you. Figure out what made you tick. Figure out why he felt so fucking drawn to you. He wanted you to stay. Stay and talk to him but it was clear that you were trying to get away and he was keeping you boxed in.

“Why?” he asked.

“It’s just time to move on,” you tell him, “Time to keep going.”

Bucky stepped out of the way and sighed, “I’d still like that drink… I- I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I just- I wanted to know what you were teaching.”

You nod, “One drink,” you sigh. You don’t want to but, he did apologize and you do have to incentivize the behavior you wanted to see.


End file.
